Addiction
by Torithy
Summary: When something gets under your skin, there's just no giving it up ... Sequel to INK.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: So this is the sequel to Ink and will probably lose some meaning if you haven't read it. Set in Tacoma, Washington and Belfast, Northern Ireland, it picks up in the weeks directly after where Ink left off - but the first few chapters will jump over a period of months to basically catch up on where everyone's at. **

**The big storylines set to carry over are, in no particular order, the fall-out facing SAMTAC after the death of their president Lorca, how Kozik handles the return of Lorca's ex-communicated daughter Taylor - and with a baby, no less - and, of course, tattoo artist Callie and Happy are already well and truly under each other's skin, but will Callie will make a new life for herself in Belfast or will their paths cross again ...**

**Hope you enjoy this and I'd love to hear your thoughts! Torrie x**

* * *

**Addiction****  
**_If I lose paper and ink, I will write in blood on forgotten walls.  
-Henry Rollins_

**Prologue**

**_Tacoma, Washington, USA_**

Twenty-nine charters scattered across the States and around the globe, from Anchorage to Arizona, Belfast to Brisbane. Twenty-nine charters, hundreds of patches, all ultimately his responsibility. It was a hell of a weight for one man to bear. He'd always known that, but sometimes the weight sat heavier on his shoulders than others.

And he'd never felt it more than as he sat at the head of Tacoma's empty table and held the gavel of a dead man in his hand. The arthritic heat in his knuckles burned feverishly, still paying for the long, hard ride from home. It had been a journey only made all the tougher for knowing the carnage that lay at the other end.

Sinking back in his chair, Clay Morrow heaved a weary sigh and shook his head, still struggling to comprehend just how the proverbial had been allowed to hit the fan so spectacularly. Much as it pained him to admit it, he wasn't a young man anymore. He couldn't help but long for his own bed, his old lady, and a shot of something to relieve the worst of the stiffness in his fingers.

Unfortunately for him, it looked like only one of those three options was going to be doable any time soon. Recognising the extent of his suffering probably better than he allowed himself to, Gemma had packed a kit with a few loaded syringes into his bag. And, while he'd groused at the time, relief had now definitely kicked in that his wife refused to be swayed in showing such foresight.

He had enough shit to deal with without wasting time being distracted by his damn hands and their slow betrayal.

SAMTAC had always held close ties to Redwood, despite the distance - providing extra muscle as and when, whether it was for straightforward protection or to help with the gun running. Some of the charter's highest ranking members had at one time or another been patched SAMCRO. Kozik, Happy, Bowie back in the day.

The news out of Washington had hit hard in California. The death of a president was always a blow and the mother charter had turned out in force for the funeral. But for Clay, the only one as yet who knew the dark truth of it all and who had stayed on with just Jax, Tig and Chibs, the devil truly was in the detail.

At the short, sharp rap on the chapel door, he wiped a hand over his eyes and looked up. "Get in here," he said, lacking the energy to really make it an order.

For a long moment, he surveyed the stern-faced Son stood tall in front of him. If he'd been looking to operate from a position of power, he'd have risen to meet that gaze on a level footing, but he was beyond that kind of bullshit power-play right now.

"Take a goddamn seat, Hap," he sighed. "You're givin' me a crick in my neck."

After a beat, Happy tugged out a chair and sat in his usual place at the table. Lorca at the head, Johnny in the VP's seat to his left and Kozik at his right hand, with Bowie beside the VP and Hap himself by Koz's side - that was how it was supposed to be. And never would again, Clay realised as the sheer finality of his old friend's passing washed over him again.

"So ..." he began, taking in the signs of strain around the dark eyes of his club's number one hitman and the obvious tension in his shoulders as he sat back with his inked arms crossed over his chest. "You still serious?"

A simple nod was all it took to make it clear that a decision had been made. And by an unswayable mind. Contrary to assumptions, the man was capable of more than brute force and calculated reasoning was far from beyond him. But this ... It looked like this was not going to be up for debate. True, as president, he could have squashed that shit straight off the bat. But, after everything, where would a disillusioned killer really get them?

And, to be honest, if that was all Happy was looking for, Clay – as troubled as he was by what it meant for the already fractured charter – reckoned they were getting off light.

"I'll talk to Quinn," he said. "You'll be nomad by the end of the week. Christ, I need a drink."

* * *

Closing the door behind him, Happy headed out of the chapel and across the clubhouse, never breaking stride until he was outside and tilting his face up to the gray sky. He ran his hands over his shaved head, blew out an angry breath, then reached for his smokes.

This was unchartered territory and it didn't sit easy with him.

He'd worn a patch, in one form or another, for the best part of twenty years and he'd long since realised that his particular role within the club meant that he felt its weight more keenly than many of his brothers. He'd made a hell of a lot of sacrifices for the club over the years – distanced himself from civilian life, put his own on hold when he'd had to serve time and on the line every time he put himself in front of a threat.

Despite everything, he'd never found himself resenting any of it. Until now.

And he was struggling to get past it. He needed out.

Not of the club, fuck no. But Tacoma, that was a different story. Especially right now, when he was one of only a very select few who knew the extent of the shit piled up at their door. Lorca had been his president for a long time and his brother for longer still. Even after everything, he couldn't just turn off the feelings of loss at his death – especially given how that had gone down. Sons didn't take that road out. They just didn't.

Even if Happy did think he understood where the man's head had been at when he had weighed up his increasingly limited options, it didn't change anything. He was stuck between two warring sets of emotions, neither of which were getting him anywhere. Regardless of whether it was taking the coward's way out or trying to save the club from being torn further apart, he wished Lorca wasn't dead and that the man he'd respected for so many years hadn't turned his gun on himself.

But he also wanted him dead and in the ground. And he wanted to be the one to pull the trigger himself. He didn't want to mourn the bastard like the rest of his still reeling brothers.

Leaning against the clubhouse wall, his lit cigarette between his lips, his fists clenched and his head bowed, Happy reluctantly let his eyes drift closed. And there it was. The same image that haunted his sleep, now burned on the back of his eyelids.

Big gray eyes full of tears and terror. Bright red blood bubbling at soft, sweet lips. Slim fingers caught in his own helpless hand, needing him when there was nothing he could do.

He wasn't sure what was worse. That or the times he saw her pale and still, already gone.

Fuck, he felt like a dumbass. This brooding over shit wasn't him, never had been. And there was usually more than enough carnage going on in his life without dreaming up any more. Yeah, that little blonde had been through more than she should ever have had to face and he knew he'd come within seconds of watching her lose her fight for life right in front of him. It hadn't happened though, so what the hell was his goddamn problem?

She wasn't dead.

Happy took a deep drag on his cigarette, tilting his head back against the wall and opening his eyes to stare up at the clouds as he exhaled a long stream of smoke.

Callie wasn't dead. His girl wasn't dead.

Just gone.

* * *

**_Belfast, Northern Ireland_**

Even though the shower was losing a little of its earlier heat, still she stood there under the spray. Her hands were braced on the tiled wall, her head tilted down to let the pressure of the water work on the tension knotted deep in her shoulders. It had only been three months and she still wasn't supposed to be over-doing it, but she never had been a good patient. She didn't have ... well, the patience for it.

Knowing she couldn't stay there forever, with a reluctant sigh, Callie twisted the dial to turn the setting to a soft cascading waterfall and let it soak soothingly into her mane of long, already freshly washed, blonde hair. This time, she lifted her face into the spray as well and, closing her eyes, just let the water wash over her.

Her most recent ink had healed well and the droplets coursing down her back didn't sting like they had when it was fresh. She just wished she could say the same for the vicious scar marring her chest. Oh, it didn't sting - the wound had healed quickly and she no longer had to worry about keeping it dry - but the jagged, puckered line would take longer to fade. Much longer.

And knowing that she would never be completely rid of that ugly reminder still tended to stop her in her tracks.

_The quick, stabbing feel of cold steel slicing into soft flesh ... Rasping as she fought for breath ... Panic rising when it seemed that the metallic tang of her own blood in her throat was going to choke her ... The terror when her fingers went instinctively to the source of the pain and came away slick ..._

She didn't want to remember any of it. Not the hurt, the fear, the look in the dark eyes that had met hers.

She had been so scared, so glad of Happy's strong hand holding hers although she hadn't been able to tell him. Because she had known how bad it was and she hadn't wanted to die, but more than that, she desperately hadn't wanted to be alone in that moment. She had never so badly needed someone to be there for her - someone to love her and lie to her and tell her it was going to be okay.

Happy had tried. God, she could see how he had tried. But, despite everything he must have done in a life lived for his club, not even the killer could keep the truth from his eyes. His fingers had gripped hers like that alone would be enough to tether her to him and he'd told her he wasn't losing her. His eyes had told a different story.

Just like that night, a tear slipped free from beneath her lashes and, with a shuddering sigh, Callie scrubbed it away and forced herself to shake off the weight of those still raw memories. Angry with her moment of weakness, she spun the shower dial and turned the water to an icy jet that drew a gasp when it hit the warmth of her skin. She should have had no fucking time for self-pity – she was alive, wasn't she?

It was over, done with and consigned to the past. Like so many other things in her life. Her so-called family, the place she should have been able to call her childhood home ... Happy? The ache in her chest when she thought of the gruff, inked biker who had held her like he'd never let go – then watched her walk away after all - had nothing to do with the blade that had so narrowly missed her heart.

But changing tack and reminding herself that she had promised Casey she'd have dinner with him and his family, she tried to force herself to focus on the here and now. She shut the water off firmly and swathed herself in a large, fluffy towel to dry off, before padding barefoot from the bathroom to her bedroom. Grabbing a comb from the dresser, she sat down on the edge of the bed to work on the tangles of her hair, her gaze drifting out the window of her new riverside apartment to the dull red streaks of the clear evening sky.

She missed him. Too much for them to be done.

Even in the studio, either working or under Casey's needle herself, she hadn't been able to find peace in her own skin. Usually the hum of the tattoo gun or the pull of the needle was a strange kind of catharsis. Not everyone's idea of escape, but it worked for her. Or at least it had before.

Laid on her front a few weeks earlier, with her head pillowed on her folded arms and her long tousled hair piled into a messy bun out of the way, she'd let her eyes drift closed and tried to focus on the slow burn spreading down her bare back. But with everything else still tumbling over in her mind, there was little chance of escape. Not when she had a new city and all that entailed, plus thoughts of the one she'd left behind, to contend with.

She still couldn't believe that weeks had slipped so quickly into months. Two months since she'd left the city that had once been her sanctuary, back before things got complicated. Two months since she'd heard from Happy. Since she'd been in his arms, kissing him like they were the only two people in the world – never mind the airport.

This was supposed to be a new start. Hence the long, slender phoenix that stretched and curled elegantly from its head on her shoulder, down one side of her spine, to the last fiery tendrils of a tail that reached her hip. Bold in size, delicate in style. Casey Devine had outdone himself.

For someone making a new start, she sure felt like she had a whole heap of unfinished business to contend with though. Most of it in Tacoma. Simply put, she couldn't say that she truly knew where she stood with the one person who had gotten deeper beneath her skin than anyone else. Despite everything, there were too many contradictions. She knew he cared – more than cared, though he'd never quite said it. He hadn't left her side until he'd known she wasn't going to slip away from him. And yet here she was, thousands of miles away.

And he had watched her go.

Sure, she had a crow – a sketch on a piece of paper tucked inside her wallet. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Even after all these weeks, she hadn't figured out if it was a goodbye or a promise. A parting gift or a signal of intent. She didn't even know what she wanted it to be. Maybe it was a precursor to something more, maybe it was all he would ever be able to give her ...

That blade may have scarred her chest, but it was her heart that hurt and her head that was well and truly fucked up from all the what ifs. What if she hadn't left for Belfast? What if she and Happy had never been more than friends? What if she'd never met Michael La Velle, the club's goddamn lawyer? What if she'd never even moved to Tacoma in the first place?

She felt like a pawn in a chess game. One tiny move and everything could change.

For better or worse.

* * *

**to be continued ...**


	2. One

**One**

"Auntie Callie, Auntie Callie!"

Having finally dashed out of her apartment and into the cab of an impatient, scowling driver, dressed simply in skinny blue jeans, an oversized white sweater and ballet pumps, the petite blonde had about five seconds once she arrived at Casey's to brace herself for the twin whirling dervishes that were his five-year-old kids. Dropping her shoulder bag, she crouched just in time to catch them as they barrelled into her arms at their front door.

"Monsters!" she grinned in greeting, hiding a wince and instead just hugging them close as they beamed up at her. "Have you guys had a nice day? Hope you were good for your mom."

"Yup," Dylan nodded confidently, meeting her fond gaze squarely as she released them, although his brother Finn – the younger of the two by just under an hour - shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.

"I'm sure you were a perfect pair of little angels," Callie said wryly, ruffling their dark curls before straightening up to retrieve her bag. "So what ya been up to?"

"We went to the zoo – saw an elephant and everything! It was big and made a really loud noise with its nose," Dylan giggled, as both boys trotted along by her side on the way into the kitchen.

"Really? Wow," she enthused. "Sounds cool ... Oh, hey, Catherine."

"Hi, Callie," Casey's wife, the twins' mother, smiled as she turned her attention from the stove to both greet her friend and scold her boisterous sons. "Boys, what have I told yous about clambering over people? Especially Callie – be gentle, don't be hurting her, remember? Sorry, love, they been filling you in on their adventure?"

"Yeah, I hear they were at the zoo – didn't realise this city was big enough for a zoo, but sounds pretty fun ..."

"Oh, it was. They tell you they ended up in the penguin enclosure?"

Her eyes widening, Callie turned to look at the now sheepish little boys. "Good for your mom, huh?" she said, trying to hold back a smirk.

"We were good!" Dylan protested. "We just ... wanted to see better."

"And paddle," Finn chipped in. "But it was smelly. We didn't know it would be smelly."

"Two baths it took to get the fish smell off," Catherine told Callie, shaking her head. "I swear to God, I have no idea how they even got in there. At least they had the sense not to go near the deep water. One minute they're holding on to the sides of the pram, the next ... I look round and there they are - dipping their toes in the shallow end and trying to catch a bloody penguin. Remind me to scratch the zoo off the days out list."

Giving in to her laughter, Callie dropped onto a stool by the breakfast bar and struggled to regain her composure. "Oh, shoot, Cat, I'm sorry," she giggled. "But, God, I love your kids!"

"That's good. 'Cause if you're not careful, I'm gonna let you keep the pair o' them," Catherine warned, with a glint in her hazel eyes. "Now, boys, just because Auntie Callie's laughing doesn't mean you're off the hook. Daddy is not gonna be amused when he hears how naughty you were."

"Oh, yes he is," Callie grinned, keeping her voice too low for the twins to hear. "Casey's gonna laugh his ass off."

"Then he'll be laughing on the other side o' his face," his wife smiled sweetly, right before the first cries from the baby monitor placed by the stove where she'd been cooking diverted her train of thought. "Oh, sweetie, you couldn't hold on until I'd got dinner ready, could you?" she sighed, looking torn between the pot she'd been stirring and the monitor.

"Hey, I can go," Callie quickly offered. "Trust me, it's probably best I get the baby rather than the dinner."

"You're a love. She's due a feed, so I have a bottle ready for her and everything – it's just in the warmer, so if you check the temperature, it should be good to go. Casey should be home any minute, so I'll send him soon as he gets in."

"Don't worry, I'm on the case!"

* * *

If there had been any shred of doubt that he was right to refuse the gavel, it was slowly but surely slipping away.

How could he lead his club out of the hole it seemed to have inadvertently dug for itself when he was questioning his right to even wear the sergeant's patch on his cut? So he'd been one hundred percent loyal – he knew it and, more importantly, his brothers knew it. Otherwise, when Johnny turned down the top seat at the table, the mother charter president temporarily holding the reins would never have so much as glanced at him.

But he couldn't help feeling that, somewhere down the line, he should have been able to stop all this. That there must have been something he'd missed. With either Lorca or his daughter before him, some sign of how twisted up they were capable of getting. And failing to see what must have been right in front of his eyes, what kind of fucking SAA did that make him?

Raking a hand through the messy spikes of his blonde hair, Kozik accepted another beer – his fifth, sixth maybe – from a hopeful-eyed sweetbutt, but dismissed the girl without a second glance. All that dark hair and big brown eyes? Hell, no. Not the kind of reminder he needed, not when there was work to be done. Not when _she_ was out there somewhere messing up his head even more than it was already.

Taylor O'Connell.

Bold, feisty, and SAMTAC to the core – the only daughter of his now dead president, a man he'd once respected and loved as a brother. Lorca's smart little girl had grown into a helluva woman. But, Christ, she'd been one to watch. Never one to settle for adopting the obedient old lady role, she was fiercely independent, calculating and devious as sin. That was probably what he'd loved about her, back in the day. Her fire.

That and the fact that neither of them had been looking to make anything more of what they had, to settle down. Or so he'd kept telling himself, even when the prospect of inking her as his had eventually started to show some serious appeal. They hadn't even gone public, insisting there was nothing much more than sex between them. Great sex admittedly, really fucking great.

He'd had no idea just how much she'd come to resent her father and his club though, none of them had, and her betrayal had hit them all hard. But probably none more than him – because he should have damn well seen it.

Club justice fell to him and he had never for a second dreamt that there would come a day when the gorgeous, rebellious woman who'd shared his bed would be the one on the receiving end. She'd come within seconds of a brutal, bloody end at his very hand, being spared right on the brink of death only to be scarred for life and excommunicated for longer than that.

Or so he'd thought. Until she made her reappearance just days after her father put a bullet in his own corrupted brain, right on his doorstep with her bags at her feet and a baby in her arms. His, by her account.

Fuck, she still knew how to blow his mind.

**_FLASHBACK_**

"Can't quite believe he's gone," the dark-haired woman stood in his hallway like she belonged there said finally, gently bouncing the child in her arms to soothe him. "You gonna make yourself useful and take your son?"

"You ... You can't be here," he managed once he'd found his tongue. "You know the score, Taylor. Club finds out, it ain't gonna end like last time ..."

"What? On the wrong end of a fucking blowtorch? I should fucking hope not, Kozik. That shit leaves a mark," she said wryly, twisting to reveal the heavily puckered scarring on the shoulder bared by her simple vest top. The evidence of her ink having been burned from her skin still had the power to make even him wince.

"Cut the wisecracks. I'm serious. You need to get gone."

"You're the sergeant, honey, so that means the club _has_ found out. You really gonna deny the mother of your child? Although, let's face it, that wouldn't be the worst thing you've done. Go on, I can see you're dying to ask."

Kozik just glared at her, but there was a pained look in the blue eyes that raked over her. He had a question all right – more than one. But he really didn't think he wanted to know one particular answer. Not when that ghost of a smile was playing on her lips, even as they grazed the little boy's downy blonde hair in a soft kiss.

"Ask me," she pushed, looking up at him as she moved closer. "Ask me, Koz."

He folded his arms across his chest and tried to swallow the lump in his throat, refusing to meet those knowing eyes. The little boy babbled happy nonsense, reached for him, and sent him backing away like he was the one who'd been burned.

"Come on, Koz, quit dancing around us. Ask me. Ask me if I was carrying your baby the night you held a _knife_ to my chest. Ask me if _your_ baby's heart was beating inside me the night you were going to cut _mine_ out. _Ask me!_"

He didn't have to. Not when the answer was crystal clear.

* * *

With a quick test of a drop of the milk on the inside of her elbow, Callie left Catherine to juggle her dinner preparations with keeping an eye on the boys and headed for the stairs. She was in awe of that woman. Twins and a baby just a few months old and there she was, preparing dinner for them all after a seemingly hectic day with minimal fuss. Sometimes Callie felt like she still struggled to take care of herself, let alone anyone else.

But she already had a soft smile on her face by the time she made it to the nursery, despite the wails coming from the crib.

"Hey, sweetie," she tried, setting down the bottle and reaching to scoop up the fussing baby. Having spent her first few weeks in Belfast staying with the Devine family, her nerves over so much as picking her up were long gone. "What's the matter, pretty girl? Shh, shh, shh - Auntie Callie's got ya."

Gently rocking the baby in her arms in a bid to soothe her, Callie was soon perched on the window seat and gazing down into the big blue eyes of her tiny charge as she suckled her bottle hungrily. "That better, huh?" she whispered wistfully. "Beautiful ... Yes, you are."

The milk was half gone by the time she looked up to find Casey watching them, his shoulder cocked against the door frame and a hand raking drops of rain out of his dark hair. "Hey, kid – how's my princess?"

"She's good, as always," Callie replied. "You coming to take over, daddy?"

"Dunno. You both look pretty content right there ..." he shrugged, crossing the room to caress his daughter's downy dark hair and press a tender kiss to her forehead. "You wanna stick with Miss Molly and I'll go entertain the monsters?"

"Sure," she nodded, shooting him a smile before turning her attention back to the baby in her arms.

Heading back out of the nursery to go downstairs to his sons, Casey stopped again in the doorway, looking like there wasn't something he wasn't sure whether to come out with or not.

"Hey, Cal?" he said finally. "You been kinda quiet in the shop lately ... I don't wanna be breathin' down your neck, but you would talk to me if anything was up, right? I mean, I ain't gonna be offended if you're homesick or missing Sketch maybe - hell, I miss that crazy bastard too. And if it's someone else ... Well, that's okay too. Just don't go bottling shit up, thinking you gotta be this tough little cookie all the time. I know I ain't exactly had my head in the game lately, but I still got your back, babe. Always."

"You know me too damn well, Case," Callie finally admitted after a long pause, managing a soft smile despite herself for the man who had been like a big brother to her for almost as long as she could remember. "I appreciate it, I really do. I guess it's just everything catching up with me a little. But I'm okay. Or at least I will be."

Nodding his understanding, he bumped a fist against the door frame in a little salute as he left. "Love ya, kid. Get your ass down for dinner when she settles – got 'bout twenty minutes."

Waiting until his footsteps had faded off down the stairs, Callie looked down at the baby and touched a finger gently to her tiny nose. "For someone who sees himself as pretty chilled, your daddy's turning into a real worrier, Molly – yes he is. So better not go bringing any boys home until you're at least thirty-five. Uh-uh, no boys. Trust your Auntie Callie, honey, they're only trouble anyway ..."

* * *

Kozik wiped his hands over his face, as if he could wipe away the memories, and downed the rest of his beer. Not that it was really helping. Nothing was doing that these days. And, as his grip tightened on the empty glass bottle, he didn't even know if he wanted oblivion or clarity in the first place.

He'd been inches from taking his own kid's life with hers.

That blue-eyed little tyke might never have seen the light of day and that would have been on his hands, if not his conscience. He'd never have even known he existed, that his tiny little heart was beating inside the body of the woman who'd betrayed them all. The fault had been hers, but the baby – _his_ baby - would have been just an innocent victim of the life they led.

That was shit he was willing to block out, if only he could.

But now he needed to think because he couldn't try to make it right, even if he knew where to start. Just as suddenly as she had forced herself back into his life, Taylor was gone again. Slipping away in the dead of night, she had taken his son with her and left only a note.

_You owe us._

_T x_

He still wore the sergeant's patch and their new president needed him with his head in the fucking game.

Lee was a long-term, trusted patch, once turned nomad and now looking to land. He had been nominated by Clay as someone capable of coming in to restore order to the struggling Tacoma charter, seconded by Quinn and passed by them all in a vote of acceptance. No one else had jumped at the chance to take the gavel, but they were all prepared to throw their weight behind him.

Both Kozik and their VP Johnny were expected to lead from the front with clear minds, renewed focus and a grim determination not to let their club crumble under the weight of Lorca's passing. They had already lost their enforcer to the ranks of the nomads, at least in part due to all the bullshit piled at their door.

But, despite everything that should have been on his mind, one thing kept overshadowing it all. She was out there. With his kid.

_You owe us._

His most toxic drug - and he'd tried 'em all in his day - she always did know how to work her way under his fucking skin.

Once an addict, always an addict.

* * *

**to be continued ...**


	3. Two

**Two**

Weeks and months had somehow kept slipping by and it was getting easier to adjust to a new city, new friends, new life. Callie had started to think of her cosy apartment as home and had fallen into a routine of sorts – she now knew the quickest routes to both the studio and to Casey's house, had discovered a great little coffee shop and a favourite bar. She filled her time tattooing, bonding with her new co-workers, exploring the city and hanging with Casey, Catherine and the kids. Belfast was ... fun.

But it was also unpredictable. It sounded like a cliché, but there was definitely a dark underbelly to the place and sometimes it lay closer to the surface than others. That was when trouble could come bubbling through the cracks, taking the shine off a city that was still finding its feet in its new, supposedly post-conflict existence.

She'd been shocked the first time she experienced a glimpse of it, when a big burly cop in a flak jacket and carrying what looked to her like a machine-gun had strode into the studio and asked for the manager before advising they pull down the shutters early.

"Is he serious?" she'd asked Casey, getting a grim nod in response.

It had, of course, been music to the collective ears of the television crew. This was what they'd wanted to see. The Belfast they had all heard stories about. But Casey wasn't taking chances – certainly not with his staff and not even with his windows. He knew the drill. Even so, he and an admittedly curious Callie had been last to leave and were still securing the heavy metal shutters when it started.

Callie would always swear you could feel it in the air, like thunder. A vague, uneasy sense that something wasn't quite right. There'd be a few shouts, distant sirens – nothing too dramatic for a city. Until the crowds gathered.

She didn't understand the intricacies of what lay behind it, but could feel the rage in those who swarmed the streets intent on venting their frustrations. She'd watched stunned as more and more people – mainly teenagers, but plenty of grown adults too – took to the streets and, all at once, the sirens were everywhere.

"Just stay back and we'll be okay," Casey had shouted over the din, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and keeping her close as they stood right outside their studio and watched the madness unfold as dusk fell.

Huge armoured Land Rovers roared down the street and blocked the path of the rioters who were now attacking cars, seemingly for no other reason that the fact that their owners had the misfortune to have parked there. Not two miles away, restaurants were full of oblivious diners and bars were packed with workers unwinding over a pint or a cocktail. The rest of the city got on with life, yet there ...

Bricks and stones flew threw the air, thumping dully off the police vehicles or the shields the officers carried. Fireworks, also used as missiles, whistled shrilly and then exploded in a flash of colour. Debris already littered the road and the pavements.

Callie had watched open-mouthed as some scrawny kid, with his hood up and a scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face, produced a bottle half-full of liquid, tucked a rag into the top and set it alight. The petrol-bomb arced across the night sky before shattering at the feet of a police officer, setting him to stamping out the flames.

She'd been horrified, but oddly mesmerised. And fascinated to watch local reporters and their cameramen filming right in the thick of it all – looking strangely out of place with their stab vests fastened over their work clothes and with protective headgear topping once neatly coiffeured hair.

The reality had hit home though when the first cop went down. A huge chuck of masonry had somehow been smashed loose and hurled from the top of a wall, crashing down on his helmeted head and sending him to the ground in a crumpled heap. His colleagues were immediately surrounding him, some forming a human wall and others half-dragging, half-carrying him to the safety of the nearest Land Rover. The baying crowds with their taunts and jeers had sickened Callie and she cringed into Casey's side.

"First riot, kid," he'd said, hugging her closer. "Let's get the fuck outta here."

It wasn't all like that, but it still made her glad for the relative sanctity of her penthouse in what she'd been assured was a _good_ area. Of course, in this compact city, good areas were just around the corner from bad. But still, curled up on her couch in front of the television and nursing a glass of wine, she felt safe in her new home.

A little lonely, now that night had fallen – but safe all the same.

Not for the first time, her thoughts drifted thousands of miles away. To another city and what almost felt like another life. To dark eyes and inked arms ... She reached for her cell phone. Then set it back down with a sigh.

Maybe tomorrow.

* * *

Another guilty gulp of whiskey, a furtive glance towards the stairs, and then he caught himself on.

What the hell was he doing? Skulking around his own home in the dark, brooding over this total bullshit when he had an exhausted wife, hyper twins, a newborn baby, and a blossoming new business venture to think about. The more he thought about it, the more absolutely fucking pathetic it got.

This wasn't him, never had been. He didn't cower to any fucker. And maybe they saw him as some dumbass Yank, and maybe he didn't get the whole loyalist versus republican turf war - so fucking what? As far as he was concerned, assholes were assholes the world over.

Seattle; Belfast. Didn't matter. Casey Devine was sick and tired of it.

"Protection money," he muttered darkly, still eyeing the note that had been forced into his hand on his way out of work earlier that evening by the same no-neck gangster's lackey who'd been hovering around the shop earlier. "Protection, my ass."

A grand a month. Every month for fuck knows how long. That was what some so-called UDA brigadier was apparently demanding, just for the privilege of allowing him to run his east Belfast tattoo studio in relative peace. He had to laugh. He had a fucking television crew camped on his doorstep hoping he was about to facilitate the kind of _edgy_ show that would send their ratings soaring. Somehow, he didn't think _this_ was what they had in mind. The bunch of pretentiously alternative media darlings he'd been landed with would, for all the way they talked the talk, most likely shit themselves if they actually came face-to-face with the local paramilitaries. They'd already cut a deal with a local news crew to buy some riot footage of them for the show, rather than stick around themselves when things got messy.

In retrospect, maybe calling the studio Addiction hadn't been the wisest move. It hadn't taken long to establish that the local hoods were up to their eyes in drug dealing, alongside the carjackings, extortion, general racketeering and of course the more traditional, sectarian activities of casual rioting and attacking the other half of the city's still divided community. The name was probably like a red rag to a roided-up bull, he thought wryly.

Shaking his head, he mentally gave himself a swift boot up the backside and tried to focus his thoughts. Stood there holding what was essentially a blackmail threat, while his wife and kids were sleeping under the same roof, was no place for his wise-ass musings.

Fuck it, he wasn't going to be backed into a corner like this.

He had enough on his plate trying to make a success of the studio and the show, while fighting to stay true to his dream and not whatever creative _vision_ some pissy little producer had concocted. Shit, if he stopped pushing his agenda and that damn television network had their way, every client would be photogenic with a sob story and all his artists would work topless. Even Callie. _Especially_ Callie.

And then he'd probably have a furious outlaw biker hopping on the first transatlantic flight to come gut him like a fucking fish, if his old buddy Sketch didn't get there first. Either way, he just didn't need that kind of aggro. Although maybe if Happy pulled his head out of his ass, he wouldn't have to worry quite so much about the girl who was his baby sister in all but blood ...

Glaring at the note again, his eyes hardening along with his resolve, he made his decision. He would-

The shrill wail of the baby broke the hush that had fallen over the house with what seemed like enough power to shatter glass and he flinched hard, before his shoulders sagged and he simply tilted his head back with a sigh before heading for the stairs.

"Daddy's coming, kid," Casey mumbled wearily, crumpling the note and tossing it towards the trash as he went. "Fuck my life."

Fuck his life.

* * *

Staring up at the ceiling of a clubhouse guest dorm, forced to listen to the not so dulcet tones of whatever particularly vocal sweetbutt was warming Quinn's bed for the night, Happy folded his arms behind his head and tried to block out the moaning coming through the wall. Finally, worn out by their time on the road, his eyes started to drift closed of their own accord ...

"Oh god, Rane, _yes!_" came the long, keening shriek. "That's it, baby ... Harder ... Fuck me, oh god, fuck me!"

Happy pulled the pillow over his head. "Fuck _me_," he scowled blackly. Quinn was his president – he could hardly boot his door in and tell him to knock it off. But that gash's voice was threatening to cleave his skull in two and he was already picturing all the ways he could remove her vocal chords.

To make matters worse, he'd had every opportunity to get his own slice of the action. He kept trying to tell himself that his refusal was just the result of too many hours on his bike – that if he'd had the chance to get his head down, he'd have been only too ready for a little TLC. It had nothing to do with the little blonde sweetbutt who'd sidled up to him with a knowing wink. Nothing.

Oh, who the hell was he trying to kid? With some generic tramp stamp on her bare midriff, big tits too round to be real, bright blue eyes and too much make-up, she was nothing like a certain tattoo artist. But with that mane of hair ... He knew he could have filled her mouth or taken her from behind and lost himself in a fantasy. And he didn't want that. He hadn't turned to a life of celibacy or some shit like that since she'd gone, but he'd gone looking for distractions - not indulgence of wishful thinking. If he couldn't have the real thing, he wasn't going to cheapen his thoughts of her like that. It wasn't like him to give a shit, but then he'd never allowed someone into his life the way he'd let Callie in. If he'd known it was going to fuck with his head so much, maybe he'd have tried harder to stay clear.

The rhythmic banging of the bed next door picked up the pace and Happy shook his head as the moans assaulting his ears only got louder. Quinn owed him. Big time. He was hardly some stiff-assed prude, but he really, _really_ didn't need to be hearing some broad's running commentary on his president's big cock, thanks.

Callie had never seemed to be one for theatrics in bed – he'd revelled in those breathless little moans he'd drew from her though, the whispered encouragement and soft gasps that were hotter than any scream. Christ, he longed for that golden skin against his ... Her legs wrapped round his waist and those gray eyes locked on his ...

"Ohhhhh, _Rane_," came the shrill cry. "Yes, yes ... Oh fuck, _yessss!_"

Thank Christ that was over. Maybe now he'd get some goddamn sleep. They were supposed to be providing nomad support to one of the southern charters as protection detail on a haul of guns coming across the Mexican border tomorrow. So if it looked like round two was starting up, president or no president, the door was getting kicked in and the sweetbutt was getting trailed out by that fucking blonde hair of hers. Simple as that.

Shifting the pillow back to below his head and tugging the covers up from where they'd settled around his waist, Happy tried to ignore the way his cock had started to stand to attention at the thoughts of his girl creeping into his mind. He heaved a sigh and closed his eyes again, only for the sound of his phone ringing to cut through the quiet that had descended.

Fucking hell. Someone better be dead ...

"Yo, Hap, man," Sketch said, the second he barked an answer. "Know it's late, but thought you'd want to know ..."

A million scenarios chilled him in a heartbeat and he gripped the phone a little tighter, anger at being disturbed shifting into something dangerously like fear. "Is it Callie?" he demanded, his voice brusque as he braced himself.

"Nah, not Cal. But while we're on the subject, would it kill ya to call the girl, you bastard? She didn't say anything, but I hear she's kinda hurt you ain't been in touch ..."

"Sketch, it's fucking 3am – this call got a point?" Happy growled, although he did somewhat guiltily file that snippet of information away to be dissected later.

"It's your boy Koz," came the grim response. "Think he might need an intervention."

Fuck his life.

* * *

**to be continued ...**


	4. Three

**A/N: I tweaked this entire thing and tightened it up by a chapter so it flows better. Feel free to have a look back through it, or not.**

* * *

**Three**

Crouched on the sidewalk to fumble with the sturdy padlocks securing the shutters over the front of the studio, Callie muttered curses under her breath when she caught her finger on the metal and then froze at the feel of a hand on her shoulder. Even though it was nearly nine in the morning and the city was already basking under rare summer sunshine, she'd been careful to check no one was loitering nearby before turning her attention to opening up. You could never be too careful, Casey had warned ...

"Sorry," came a warm chuckle. "You looked like you were strugglin'."

"Jesus, Sean, you scared the shit outta me!" But there was more relief than irritation in her tone and, taking the hand her co-worker held out for hers, Callie let him tug her easily to her feet. She stood back as he took over working on the stubborn shutters, watching with one shoulder cocked against the wall and trying to stifle a yawn.

"Just think, love, if you'd taken heed o' my wee offer last night ..." he started, twinkling blue eyes looking up at her through the dark curls that peeked out from under his beanie hat. "... I'da even come and opened up for ya."

"Oh yeah?" she smiled wryly, folding her arms across her chest and already guessing where he was going with that line. "And what would I be doing instead, huh?"

"Catchin' up on some sleep, all tucked up in my bed, o' course," he shrugged, shooting her a cheeky little grin as he finally heaved the heavy shutters upwards.

"In your dreams, Seany-boy," Callie laughed.

"Every fucking night, gorgeous ..."

* * *

"That's what brought your ass back here? Hap, that's bullshit. And Sketch needs to learn to keep that big nose of his outta other people's business and that even bigger mouth shut. It ain't even an issue. So I popped a couple of downers to get some goddamn sleep – it ain't like I'm mainlining heroin here ..."

"You're a fucking _addict_, Koz," Happy snapped in frustration, taking in the worn out look around his brother's dulled eyes as he paced the floor like a restless animal. "You don't get to be that fucking casual about this shit. You gotta knock it on the head and get back in the game. Tacoma needs you clean, bro."

"I _am_ clean! Jesus fucking Christ, the word of a sergeant not good enough now?"

But even as Kozik rounded on him, the previously sullen look on his unshaven face turning to anger, Happy never so much as flinched. Instead, he simply held him off with one firm hand braced on the burlier man's chest. "Not when the stakes are this high, it ain't."

And when that hand was roughly shoved aside, he lifted his chin in determination and his dark eyes narrowed dangerously. "You get to do that _once_. Next time, I knock some fucking sense into you the hard way. Don't go thinking that sergeant patch means I won't trail your sorry ass to Sons' rehab all over again if I have to."

He could see that warning hit home like it was supposed to. And no wonder. He had no doubt that Kozik was as fearless as they came, but the Sons of Anarchy approach to rehab was just like the club's approach to most things – pretty damn brutal. The shakes, hallucinations, sweating like a whore in confession, chucking your guts up, feeling like you were about to crawl out of your own skin ... And none of the swearing, pleading or promising held any sway when you were up against men who had the ability to torture without a shred of compassion.

Brotherhood, friendship and trust. All of it was strictly on hold until the so-called _patient's_ denial and defences had been ripped down and he had been reduced to a pitiful mess on the floor. Only then could the real work of putting him back together begin.

"Come on, bro, you know you're on a rocky road here," Happy tried, feeling more than a little out of his depth. Regardless of his reputation, he bought into the brains before bullets ethos of the club, but talking shit out was still not really his bag. He wasn't some fucking counsellor but, unfortunately, while beating the shit out of his brother might work short-term, it wasn't actually going to resolve anything. "Look, you ain't stupid – that's why you're the sergeant and I follow orders. You know we already got more than enough on our plates without taking on this _what if_ bullshit."

With a heavy sigh, Kozik hung his head and dropped down onto the nearest chair to wipe his hands over his face. "Okay. I fucked up. I let it get on top of me and it won't happen again, I swear. On my cut, on my ride, on any damn thing you want. Hap, you know me. This ain't a relapse, just ... shit gettin' in my head. I'll handle it."

"Lorca?"

"More like Taylor," came the reluctant admission.

"That gash ain't even here and she's still stirring shit," Happy growled, pulling up a chair and sitting down next to where his brother now had his head on the table, looking a picture of misery.

"Don't gotta tell me it's fucking pathetic, but wherever the hell she took off to, she's got my _kid_, man. I never saw this coming in the first place. A _kid_. But now, it's been months and tracking them down is all I can think about. Ain't so much as held him, don't even know his goddamn name. But knowing I coulda cost my own son his life ... How the fuck do I stop that just eating me the hell up?"

"That ain't on you, bro."

"No? Sure as hell ain't on an innocent little baby. Look, I ain't expecting you to get it," Kozik said. "My head says, sure, how could I have known? My gut says it don't fucking matter. I coulda killed them both and that ain't something I can just get past. Come on, even you can't tell me you don't think about how shit might have turned out different."

Only every fucking night.

Sometimes he even saved her. Sometimes he got there just in time to grab that bastard by his scrawny neck and feel his bones snap under his hands – the same hands that would pull Callie close and keep her there as the knife fell to the floor with the body and he realised how narrowly he'd escaped having her torn away for good.

More often, she was already gone. Cold and pale on the floor, in a pool of blood that stained his hands and his jeans when he dropped to his knees beside her and tried to will her back to life.

Sometimes she died in his arms ...

"Ain't about me," Happy said roughly, shaking off the thoughts that still haunted him. "And there's a difference in brooding over shit and letting it drag you into something you can't get a handle on. You can think about the what ifs all you like, but none of it changes the facts. Tayor ain't dead and neither is the kid. You gotta stop focusing on shit you didn't do and start thinking what the hell you _are_ gonna do. Her ex-communication still stands for a start – can't change that without taking it to the table. But do you really want that devious bitch back around here anyway, twisting everything and everyone? She's dangerous and you know it ... Or do you just want the kid?"

"I ... I dunno," Kozik managed. "Maybe all this is just the goddamn guilt talking. All I can see in my head is that night. I knew she'd never beg, but I could see it in her eyes – she wanted me to save her. And I didn't. Jesus, Hap, I know I've done a helluva lot of bad shit in my time, but killing a pregnant woman? One _I_ knocked up?"

"You didn't know ..."

"So fucking _what?!_" the sergeant roared in sudden, desperate fury, almost overturning his chair as he shot out of it and slammed both fists into the nearest wall. "Look at what happened to Callie ..."

"Leave her outta this ..."

"Nah, come on, man – when Callie was stabbed, that guy coulda killed her. But he didn't mean to, so that's okay, right? I mean, he didn't know what would happen. Maybe we should just have let him off the hook ..." Kozik ranted, an angry spark in his fierce blue eyes when a thought struck him. "What if your girl had been pregnant?"

"You need to get your head out of your fucking ass and into the real world," Happy started, thrown by the suggestion but rising to his feet nonetheless.

"You think it's so easy now to dismiss all those what ifs, killer? You know you'd have torn apart the asshole responsible with your bare hands."

Grabbing him and slamming him into the wall just to shut him up, Happy forced himself to take a deep breath and get back in control. "I'd have done that anyway, if you'd given me the fucking chance," he seethed, before letting Kozik go and sending him slumping to the floor.

"Just something else I fucked up then," the sergeant said grimly. "Maybe that kid's better off as far from a guy like me as fucking possible ..."

* * *

She couldn't say her plan hadn't worked out – simply because there was no real plan in the first place.

Pacing the floor of the cramped, dingy one-bedroom apartment, she raked a hand through the tangles of her hair and bit her lip to keep from screaming at the wailing baby laid in the centre of the bed. With tightly clenched fists and even his feet flailing, his little scrunched-up face was turning scarlet with exertion.

"I don't know what you _want!_" Taylor tried, getting increasingly desperate in her fight to keep from lashing out. "Stop crying, please just stop crying ... Shut up, shut up, _shut up!_"

She was supposed to be in control – cool, calm, calculating even. She hadn't been prepared for the impact of her return to Tacoma though. Seeing Kozik in particular had been tough, stirring up old feelings but also serving as a reminder of a night she had tried so hard to forget. However hopeless her efforts had been.

She hadn't expected this to be the hard part – being shut in a tiny apartment with a screaming baby. She'd tried everything though. Feeding him, changing him, rocking him. Nothing worked for more than a few minutes.

Reduced to tears of sheer frustration herself, she'd even tried just ignoring him. But the persistent cries only seemed to intensify and the impatient hammering and shouts to keep it down from the upstairs neighbours didn't help matters either. It felt like the walls were closing in and all she could hear was the baby's endless distress.

She wasn't delusional enough to have ever thought she would simply be welcomed straight back into the family she had left behind, even if her father was dead and gone, but neither had she expected to still be so far out in the cold. She could see how hard the mere sight of the little boy had hit Kozik and had been certain that taking off again would be the best way to keep control of the situation, knowing she now had something he must want.

Even if he hated her, she was convinced that the sergeant would have been after them like a shot. For his son's sake if nothing else.

She had always been so sure of herself, so independent. Ever since that night though - a night that still haunted her dreams - everything had changed. And as much as she struggled to admit it, she couldn't face the thought of trying to cope alone anymore. But there was no sign of Kozik showing his face and she didn't know what more she could do. She was in over her head and in danger of drowning.

"I'm trying," Taylor wept helplessly as she slid to the floor beside the bed and buried her head in her hands. "Jesus, I'm trying ..."

* * *

"Can I help you?" Callie asked their latest visitor, polite but already wary. Just as Sketch had filled her in on the locals in Tacoma, Casey had given her the low-down on potential problem customers – including ink worth looking out for.

The red hand on the shoulder of this brooding hulk of a man before her wasn't a particularly good sign.

"Boss about?"

Between the sharpness of the accent and the way he was mumbling as he tried to keep his head down, having obviously clocked the camera crew even if they were preoccupied with Sean and the girl he was inking, she only just caught the words and shook her head.

"Sorry," Callie tried. "Casey isn't working today. Did you have an appointment or ..."

"Ain't gonna have the likes o' him pissin' us about."

"Excuse me?"

"You tell yer man the clock's ticking. He'll know what it means, so he will," came the growl. "An' if we don't hear from him, let him know we'll take our fucking payment in kind."

"Look, buddy, I don't know what this is about, but if you've got a problem ..."

One meaty hand shot out and caught Callie by the throat, with surprising agility for such a big man, and he leaned in close to sneer in her face as the rest of the studio appeared to remain oblivious. All at once, the little blonde was pressed hard against the reception desk and she clawed at the fingers steadily tightening their grip. It was too much – too like that night in Sketch – and suddenly the lack of air wasn't just because of the hold she was trapped in. She was panicking, wide-eyed and gasping for breath as she struggled against him and that feeling like the whole world was closing in on her.

Even as her captor snarled quiet threats in her ear, the camera crew were nudging each other, shifting their focus and then Sean was right there.

"She can't breathe, man – let her go," he urged, though he seemed to make no move to physically intervene. "If it's money you're after, you'll get it. Ain't no point hurtin' the wee girl."

In too much of a state to know what more was said or done, Callie could only sink trembling to the floor the second she was released. Gentle hands pushed her hair back from her face before arms wrapped around her.

"Get that fucking camera outta her face," Sean snapped as he held her tight. "And don't even think about goin' and usin' that shite."

It wasn't an order that held much sway.

* * *

**to be continued ...**


	5. Four

**A/N: So yeah, moving house really is one of the most stressful things you'll ever do. Apologies for the delay and big thanks to some amazing freaky ladies for helping me keep at least a tenuous hold on my sanity - you rock!**

* * *

**Four**

"How bad did he hurt you?"

Callie didn't need to hear his tone of voice to realise how he was feeling. Stood with his back to her, her oldest friend's shoulders were hunched and tense as he leaned over the kitchen counter. Despite his usual laidback attitude and ability to stay calm under pressure, she could practically feel the anger washing off him in waves.

"I said: '_How bad did he hurt you?_'" he snapped suddenly, storming to where she was sat at the table and seizing her face in his hands to get a better look at the bruises on her throat. "Jesus Christ, Cal ..."

But she tried to shy away from his touch, shaking her head. She didn't want this to blow up into a big drama. "I'm okay, honestly. Please don't, Casey. It looks worse than it is – he wouldn't really have done anything in front of everyone like that. He just lost his cool, I guess."

"Obviously wasn't what you were thinking when you had a goddamn panic attack on my shop floor!"

"Sorry," she said quietly, dropping her gaze to her feet. "I know it's stupid ..."

But that was all it took for all the fight to drain out of him at once, leaving only concern and something close to disbelief when he sank to his knees in front of her and gently tilted her head up again to meet his worried eyes. "Babe, no, you don't gotta be sorry. That ain't what I was saying. I just ... You never told me how hard what happened back home hit you. And of course it would, I get that - I just don't want you ever feeling like you gotta work through that alone. And now this ... This shit is on me and I'm _so_ fucking sorry I put you in that position."

Tears welled up unbidden as he leaned in to wrap her up in a warm hug and Callie rested her head on his shoulder. "Don't be nice to me, Case – you know it makes me turn on the waterworks. And it's not your fault ..."

"No, it is, darlin'. I wish it wasn't, but it is," Casey sighed. "I've been really fucking stupid."

Something in his tone made her pull back to look at him in confusion, letting him pull up a chair beside her. And finally, the whole story came tumbling out.

"So, let me get this straight – some scumbag wants you to pay him so he won't basically threaten your staff or burn the studio down?"

"That's about it," Casey nodded glumly. "I know, I know – I shoulda shut my mouth and paid up ..."

"Are you shitting me here?" Callie demanded. "Hell no! Case, we've dealt with bigger sharks than this."

"Yeah, but now we're the fish outta water. This ain't Seattle or Tacoma, doll. No one's got our backs round here and don't underestimate the hate in this place. Don't you go thinking you're safe when those cameras are around – you've seen the shit that goes on here in broad daylight, in front of cops, cameras and anyone else."

"So, what? We hand over the cash and that's it?"

Casey raked a hand through his hair, seemed to consider for a moment and then gave her a simple, reluctant nod. "I just don't see any other way. I took a risk and it backfired – I ain't having that blow back on my family. I hate even putting the thought in your head, kid, but what if today had gone down like it did back in Tacoma?"

She knew she must have paled a little at that, as memories of that snarling face in front of hers and then all the pain and fear and darkness bubbled up again before she could quite slam a lid on them. But Casey's hand was on hers for a reassuring squeeze of her fingers before her mind could travel too far down that road.

"You regretting coming out here?" he asked ruefully.

"No," Callie said, maybe just a little too quickly, then again with more conviction. "No, of course not. I missed you, and I love spending time with the boys, and seeing little Molly has just been amazing."

"Those kids adore you," he smiled, reaching out to tug playfully on a lock of her long, tousled hair. "I gotta keep their Auntie Callie safe for 'em. Don't worry, babe – this'll get sorted."

"I know," she nodded, pulling him into another hug. "We'll figure something out."

* * *

"You here for ink or is this just a social call?"

Throwing himself down on one of the comfortable recliners, Happy tucked one hand behind his head and heaved a sigh. It wasn't the same somehow. "Thought I'd check in before I hit the road again. How's business?"

"Steady," Sketch nodded, spinning a chair round to straddle it and jerking a thumb in the direction of his two new, and definitely busy, tattoo artists. "Had to take on some help. Guess a lotta folk want to see where Addiction's rising star used to ply her trade. Speaking of, had a call from Casey last night ..."

When nothing more followed, save for a long pause, Happy opened his eyes and frowned. "And?"

"You ain't gonna like it, bro."

* * *

Within the claustrophobic confines of the once-white walls, Brian 'Tommo' Thompson tried to focus solely on the sound of his own laboured breathing. Not that there was much else anyway, bar the usual shouts and scuffles. Footsteps outside the door, or the clink of keys in metal locks. The occasional blare of a tannoy announcement. But he ignored all that in favour of the rhythm of his own breath. In and out, in and out.

His only recently healed ribs had long since been protesting against his efforts and he knew he was pushing his body too hard too soon. It was that or go stir-crazy though. Because one thing he couldn't filter out was the noise inside his head.

His movements were slower now, and the muscular arms pushing his bulk up from the cold, hard ground were trembling with the effort. Sweat-soaked, he'd lost count of his press-ups somewhere just shy of 500, when insidious thoughts of the outside world somehow started crawling through the defences of his mind again.

If only he had something to take the edge off ...

Finally collapsing to the floor, he managed to roll onto his back and then just lay there with his chest heaving. At least behind a locked door, he didn't have to watch his back every second. He was scared of no man, but he wasn't dumb enough not to realise that his power was waning. Inside and out. Word on the street was that some of his 'clients' were being less than forthcoming with their dues and that not only pissed him off for the dent it put in his wallet, but for the harm it did his reputation behind the prison walls.

That was, after all, how he'd wound up with three broken ribs – throwing down with the wee shite who'd suggested some newly incarcerated chancer was looking to make a move for the top dog spot in the loyalist wing. Sure, he might have broken some ribs, but that mouthy bastard would be lucky not to still be taking his meals through a straw in six months. He, on the other hand, would be in better shape than ever within weeks.

The show of strength wouldn't dissuade any challengers for long though. Especially not if his business continued to weaken on the outside. He needed to prove that, even locked up in the high-security jail, he was still a player.

And he'd be damned if some fucking _tattooist_ was going to stand in his way.

Oh, his boys kept him well-informed. Apparently Casey Devine, the Yank who ran that ink joint, had refused to pay up. A handful of others followed suit - Will Mason, who'd opened some new coffee place; Stevie Easton, a bookie who'd never previously asked questions; the Reed brothers, mechanics who ran a tiny repair shop. And there'd probably be more before the month was out. Word was spreading and he couldn't have that. He'd be a laughing stock among other loyalists, never mind that republican scum.

Running a weary hand across his own chest and the prominent ink etched over his heart – a crown above a red hand, all flanked by two crossed flags - Tommo forced himself to his knees and then to his feet. He made it to the hard bottom bunk, stumbling a little, and threw himself down on it. Making it to his own top bunk wasn't an option until he felt like his knees wouldn't give way.

If only he had something to take the edge off ...

He stared up at the underside of his bunk, eye to eye with some slag from a magazine centrefold left behind by his former cellmate. She stared back unblinkingly, laid on the hood of an American muscle car with her admittedly impressive tits out and a hand up her excuse for a skirt. He reached up and traced a hand over her face with a smirk. He always did have a thing for blondes.

Carefully, he peeled the poster away from the underside of the bunk and freed the tiniest of baggies it uncovered from its hiding place. Bingo.

* * *

It was hard to know what he liked less, as he used Sketch's office computer to view the footage that had been leaked online over and over again – some bastard's hand around his girl's throat, or some other fucker's arms around her shoulders. _Comfort, my ass._ Happy knew his game.

But above all, he could barely take his eyes off the trembling blonde sat on the floor of the studio with her knees drawn up to her chest and her face buried in her hands. When the hell was that little girl gonna catch a break? He'd only let her get on that goddamn plane thinking it would keep her safe. He knew Belfast from the Sons' charter there, and from the club's dealings with the Irish Kings, and he knew the city had more than its fair share of problems. But he'd figured that an outsider who stayed clear of all that shouldn't draw any negative attention. Trust Casey and his borderline arrogance in thinking he could handle himself. That had been one thing back in the day, when he'd been living it up in Seattle – he had a family to protect now. A wife and kids. Callie ...

The hell was that dumbass _thinking?_

Putting her on that plane had been for her own fucking good. Working for Casey was a hell of an opportunity – she could keep making a career and a name for herself, see the world, be with people she considered family. And more than any of that, he'd thought she could be safe. Certainly safer than the target she risked becoming if she was with him. That had already happened and he'd swore to himself that it never would again.

Maybe on the other side of the world, much as it pained him, she could have everything he could never give her. A normal life.

But fuck that. It seemed Belfast was every bit as fucked up as his world could be and this trusting other people to look after what was his was turning out to be bullshit. He'd always been a hands-on kinda guy and, the way he was coming to see it, there was only one place she could be where he could do his damndest to keep her safe. And that was right where she'd belonged in the first place.

By his side.

* * *

Drug-blown pupils stared back at him in the hazy reflection of the tiny square of reinforced window in his cell door. He could always depend on his boys on the outside for the good shit. He could practically feel it coursing through his veins and he flexed his biceps experimentally.

Time to quit the brooding and take some serious action. It was time everyone knew that Tommo was still top dog.

Checking no screws were passing along the corridor outside his cell, he headed for the toilet in the corner and dropped heavily to his knees. Hardly able to keep the grin from his face, he reached down behind the cistern and started to wiggle an already loose brick free with his fingertips. He had to be quick, but if he dropped it, he'd never be able to fit his hand any further down the narrow gap.

Both hands were now wedged between the cistern and the wall. Then, all at once, he had it. The brick pulled far enough out with one hand to let him free a tiny mobile phone from behind it. Basic shit, with a cracked screen from its last outing, but enough to do the job. Getting a signal could be a bastard, but usually the spot by the barred window did the trick.

By the third ring, his induced high was swiftly peaking into fury. He warned those fuckers to keep that phone close and, by Christ, if they fucked this up for him ...

"Uh, 'lo?"

"What kept ya, ya prick?" Tommo barked, just about remembering to keep it down to a rough whisper. "I ain't got time for waitin' about. Any word on those debts?"

"Nah, not yet, but ..."

"What the hell are yous doin' out there? Standin' round with your thumbs up your arses, pissin' my business up the wall? You listen to me, 'cause if I get my way, I'll be outta this shitehole in a coupla months and I ain't comin' out to less than I went in with! You give Frazer and the boys a message from me. The Red Hand hits hard. You got me? The Red Hand hits damn fuckin' hard."

"But, boss ..."

"Get it done."

Cutting the call, Tommo struggled to replace the phone in its hiding place, only relaxing once it was covered with the brick again and he was back on the bottom bunk. The blonde was back in her rightful place too and this time her pout looked that much more inviting.

Order, in his world, was about to be restored. And the reverberations from his east Belfast heartland would reach all the way inside Maghaberry's prison walls – and beyond. He didn't give a shit about collateral damage.

Like the loyalist motto went ... No surrender.

* * *

**to be continued ...**


	6. Five

**A/N: Since I've been so rubbish at updating lately, I thought I'd reward anyone still reading for their patience with a rare swift chapter. Would love to hear your thoughts! I should also just add, remember that this is all still set early in season one at the latest - I don't intend to touch on events of the show beyond maybe a passing mention. x**

* * *

**Five**

Tugging the sleeves of her heavy-knit gray sweater down over her hands, Callie leaned on the cold metal railing and stared out across the murky River Lagan. It was still early, especially for a Sunday, and she had the towpath mostly to herself – save for the occasional dog walker or extra dedicated jogger. Belfast was already turning autumnal and was, for now at least, decidedly cool and shrouded in mist. That, coupled with the quiet of a city not yet woken up, was almost eerie.

It didn't seem like a place where people had been torn apart by bombs and bullets barely twenty-four hours earlier. Which she supposed was ironic, given its past.

Ten.

Ten people had lost their lives. Fathers, husbands, uncles, brothers ... Sons. Ten families left to grieve. Old ladies, kids, ageing parents ... Brothers.

Ten.

She'd thought a walk might clear her head, and yet it just kept making comparisons her heart couldn't handle. Not knowing Sambel like she did their counterparts in Tacoma, she couldn't be sure, but ten had to be more than half the charter. Half the club wiped out in minutes, maybe seconds.

Callie tried to shake the thoughts that followed, but her mind kept coming back to one irrefutable fact. The Sons, by the very nature of the life they led, were targets. Simple as that. Marked men with dangerous enemies and some pretty shady allies too. What had happened here may have been wrapped, as many things were, in echoes of Belfast's troubles – but it could have happened anywhere. To any charter. Any Son.

Only one thought, tinged with guilt, kept flickering in Callie's mind though. It wasn't him. As horrible and shocking and sad as it all was, the grief wasn't hers to bear. Because it wasn't Happy. But it could have been ...

Her ringing cell phone cut through both the quiet of her surroundings and the noise in her head, sending her reaching into her pocket automatically. She answered without even sparing the caller id a second glance.

"Hello?"

"Hey," came the gruff voice from the other end of the line, stopping her in her tracks.

"Happy," she whispered, a million thoughts and feelings all washing over her at once at the mere sound of his voice. Stunned though she was, she fought hard to keep things light. "Hey. You don't call, you don't write ..."

"Shouldn't have left it this long," he admitted. "I just ... Shit, Cal, I can't get into this on the goddamn phone – plus I gotta get to Charming for church."

"I'm gonna go ahead and assume you don't mean confession. So why the call?"

Silence. For a long time. "Fucking city's all over the news," he said finally. "Guess I needed to hear your voice. You pissed at me, little girl?"

Typical of the stoic biker to leave her hanging for months, doubting him and everything they'd had, and then just call out of the blue and send her reeling again in a second. "If you were here right now, I'd kick your ass, Lowman," she managed. "And then I'd kiss the hell outta ya."

"Keep talkin', darlin' ..."

"No," she whispered, already practically blushing at the low, suggestive rumble of his voice and remembering where she was with another little laugh as an elderly lady trailing a tiny Dachshund on a lead gave her a strange look as she walked briskly past. "Shit, Happy, I miss you."

"Good. Remember that when some Mick bastard starts pushin' up on ya. Listen, I gotta go. Stay safe, baby."

"You ..." But he was already gone. "... too."

* * *

The faces around the table were stern, with strain etched across furrowed brows. They were never reckless, always tried to be one step ahead, but they knew the risks of the life they led. A man could lay down his bike, get swiped by a truck, drop down dead of a heart attack – and that was before you ever figured in the bullets, bombs and prison shanks. That was just existing.

Something half of Sambel no longer had to worry about.

Clay glanced around the room and slowly shook his head, still in disbelief. First Lorca, now this. He knew the chances of everyone seated at his table growing old together were slim, but the thought of half of them being wiped out in one fell swoop ... He idly wondered who might make it out.

Jax had all the cocky immortality of youth, but that could be the very thing to get him killed. Tigger was never going to go out quietly – unless maybe face down in some broad half his age. Battle-scarred Chibs ...

The rumble of bikes broke the solemn reverie and he looked up, even as Bobby hauled himself up from his place and headed for the door.

"Gotta be Quinn and Hap," he mumbled, more into his beard than to anyone else. "I'll bring 'em on through."

The president nodded and then let his thoughts drift again. Life in Charming was no stroll in the park, but Belfast had long been the frontline. Especially since the deal with the IRA had been put in place. It was hard to gauge at this stage how sympathetic Galen would be to their losses. Clay guessed from experience that would all depend on just how big the impact was going to be on the Irish Kings and their cause.

When the door opened again, he simply nodded at the road-weary men in front of him. Words had been failing him since the news filtered through. He hadn't been expecting them quite so soon and yet he wasn't surprised, under the circumstances.

"Rode through the night," Quinn said, in answer to a question that didn't need to be asked. "Shit just got serious."

"It did that, brother," Clay sighed.

"Whadda we know?" Happy spoke up, though the look on his face said more than any words could.

"Still low on intel until the Sambel survivors regroup," Juice supplied. "They ain't back in the clubhouse yet and ..."

"And we can talk more when you two get your heads down for a bit," Clay cut him off. "No arguments. I don't need any of you dead on your feet when one of our founding charters just took a hit like this. I need everyone sharp – that goes for all of you. We play smart, but we focus on protecting our own and then taking out the threat. This does _not_ go unanswered."

"How many?" Quinn asked heavily. No one needed to ask what he meant. "The reports were so fucking vague."

Clay looked down at the reaper carved in the solid wood table, weighed the gavel in his hand and then set it down to reach for a cigar and a lighter from inside his cut. "Easier to tell you who made it."

But when nothing more was forthcoming, it was Bobby who cleared his throat. "McGee's whole. O'Neill caught a bullet, but he'll make it. Ryan, Geezer, Scrum. One of the prospects – Chibs' nephew Padraic ..."

Chibs crossed himself at that even though it wasn't the first he'd heard of it, managing a faint smile for the brothers who reached to pat him on the shoulder and share in his relief.

"Who else?" Quinn demanded, not begrudging the Scot his little shred of good news, but impatient to know the whole story and the true cost to his wider club.

"Luther's touch and go," Bobby said quietly. "And that's it."

"Whadda ya mean, _it_? What about the rest of them? Keefer, Ollie, Dee? Mouse? Benny?"

The scrape of Clay's chair as he shoved it back from the table and stood grated their teeth, even as it stopped the nomad president's list before he was half done. "Dead," he said roughly. "They're all dead."

* * *

As all over the place as her head had been, the newsagent's window still caught Callie's eye on her way past. Stacks of Sunday newspapers were waiting to be bought, broadsheets and tabloids. But it was one particular front page that caught her eye – a ragsheet she'd become familiar with during her time in the city. All scandalous lies, according to the disdainful mutterings of those in authority. But the word on the street was that the best of the salacious gossip usually came with more than a grain of truth at its core.

_RED._ That was all the headline screamed, complete with a full-colour image of the scene of the latest atrocity to rock the city. The blood looked all the starker against the white sheets that covered the bodies.

_Ten executed in loyalist bloodbath - Red Hand reaches beyond prison walls._

Callie read the strapline over and over again, rooted to the spot as the words sank into her brain.

"Here, you for buyin' that or what, love? This ain't a bleedin' library," came the scowl from presumably the owner, as he stood in the doorway smoking a cigarette right down to the filter.

She looked round at him blankly, then fished in the pockets of her jeans and came up with a fistful of change. Shoving a pound coin at him, she reached around to grab a copy of the paper from the stand nearest the door. "Keep the change," she managed, already hurrying off.

"Five whole feckin' p," the newsagent muttered. "Aye, I'll go ahead and bloody retire."

* * *

"Mother charter's gotta be well represented," Clay said heavily, looking around the table at his grim-faced men. "Belfast's been fighting our frontline for a long time – they deserve our respect and our help in righting this wrong. But we can't leave ourselves weak at home."

"I should be there, represent the nomads," Quinn spoke up. "But I can pull in the rest of my guys, have 'em fill out any charter in need of bodies."

Clay considered that for a moment and then nodded. "Travel issues are gonna restrict the numbers, plus we wanna stay as far below radar as we can, but I reckon me and Jax both gotta show our faces ..."

"And I'm with you, boss," Tig interrupted, from his sergeant's seat at the president's right hand.

"I need to get me arse over there too, Clay," Chibs said. "See for meself that Paddy's whole. Maybe even see Fi and my wee Kerrianne ..."

"You know it's risky, but I ain't gonna tell you no, brother. So that makes five of us. Bobby, you think you can man the defences here? You'll have Opie, Juice, Piney, Sack ... Hap, you'll stick around to help out?"

But for once, raising eyebrows among them all, the club's most dependable soldier looked torn.

* * *

When rapping the door with her knuckles brought no response, reluctant though she was to disturb the kids, Callie started to beat on the painted wood with the flat of her palm until she finally heard footsteps on the stairs.

"Who the hell's chasing your ass?" a decidedly dishevelled Casey demanded grumpily, stood in the doorway in his boxers and running a hand over his messy hair. "You know it's fucking Sunday, right? Molly's had us up half the night, goin' off every damn hour like a busted car alarm ..."

"I know it's early – I didn't wake Cat or the kids, did I?"

"Oh, no concern then over waking _me_! All right, all right. Come in, I'm putting the coffee on," he mumbled in defeat. "Don't give me that look either. I got one wife - I don't need to be in your bad books too."

Following him into the kitchen, Callie sank down onto a stool by the breakfast bar and threw down the newspaper, face up.

"You really readin' that rag?" Casey snorted, as he rubbed his hands over his unshaven face and then busied himself with getting mugs and firing up the coffee machine.

"Maybe you should too."

"Nah, I'm good, sweetheart – can read to the kids if I'm that desperate for fairytales."

"Read the fucking front page, Casey," Callie demanded impatiently.

"Jeez, girl, you mighta been up before me, but you sure got outta the wrong side of the bed!" he said in surprise. "All right, I'm reading it! Maybe I should make you decaf ..."

Slumped on a stool beside her, he read while she watched him intently for any kind of reaction. Bar a grimace or two, probably over the graphic detail regarding the injuries, there wasn't any. But that didn't necessarily disprove her theory. Maybe he really didn't know.

"I dunno what I'm reading here, Cal," he said finally, as if knowing what she was thinking. "Beyond the obvious."

With a sigh, she took the paper from him and pointed to the line that had gotten her thinking.

_The loyalist Red Hand Commandos have been quiet since the incarceration of their boss, Brian 'Tommo' Thompson, six months ago on charges including racketeering, extortion, threats to kills and GBH. But this resurgence sends a clear message to anyone operating on their turf, whether republicans or rival loyalists ..._

"The guy who grabbed me in the studio," Callie started to explain. "He had a red hand tattoo. Are these the guys threatening you for money, Casey?"

"Keep your damn voice down!" he hissed, glancing upwards as if he could see through the kitchen ceiling to the bedroom where he hoped his wife was still sleeping. "Look, I told you I'd take care of it – you don't have to worry."

"Case," she pleaded, knowing him too well to let him fob her off again. "Please tell me the _truth_. Because this is not just some wannabe bully-boy, this shit is serious. They _killed_ ten people – wiped out half an MC! I know you're trying to protect me, but keeping me in the dark is only going to make things worse ..."

"Fine," he snapped, but his shoulders slumped and he couldn't meet her worried gaze. "Yeah, it's them. The guy who grabbed you is Harry Blunt. They call him Hammer apparently. He's Tommo's right-hand man."

For a long moment, Callie just let that sink in. But before she could say a word, she could hear footsteps on the stairs again and Catherine padded barefoot into the kitchen in her robe.

"Someone's up and about early," she yawned. "Everything okay?"

"Uh, fine," Callie smiled quickly. "Casey was just bending my ear about your sleepless night. Hey, if you two want a night off to go out or just catch up on sleep, I can babysit anytime."

"You're a sweetheart and I'll hold you to that. You sure nothing's wrong though? You look a bit ... edgy."

Hating lying to her friend, Callie forced a smile, but quickly realised Catherine was just too on the ball not to realise something was up. "I just ... I got a call earlier," she said suddenly. "From Happy." Casey's head shot up at that, even as a knowing look crossed his wife's face.

"Ah, the biker," Catherine said softly. "I guess news of what happened yesterday reached the States. Maybe put stuff in perspective?"

"Said he needed to hear my voice."

"From what I've heard, I'm guessing it takes a lot for a guy like him to admit something like that."

"Guess so."

"But it's all messing with your head?"

"Little bit," Callie nodded, biting her lip thoughtfully. "I think after everything, I just didn't expect not to hear from him at all for six months. I mean, I get it and I don't want to be the clingy type, I just ..."

"Need to know where you stand."

"Exactly," the little blonde smiled ruefully, reaching into her back pocket and pulling out her wallet. Despite it not being the reason she'd called round, it was good to talk to Catherine about this stuff. Even if Casey was eyeing her nervously over his coffee, evidently worried his wife was going to call them out on what they'd really been talking about. "He gave me this when I left Tacoma. I found it hidden in my bag."

Holding out her hand for the carefully folded piece of paper, Catherine opened it curiously. "What's this? Like a raven or something?"

"A crow. The MC, its main charter in California is known as SAMCRO. The guys ink their old ladies with crows."

"So he wants you to get this tattoo for him?"

Callie shook her head. "I don't think so. I think it's just ... kinda symbolic. A message. When I first started doing ink for some of the guys from his club in Tacoma, Happy was the one who explained a lot of their basic designs to me. Reapers, anarchy signs, patches, all that sort of stuff. Who's allowed to get what and how different charters have their own little quirks. He told me about the crows – I think that's why he drew it. Samtac doesn't really have an equivalent, but he knew I'd get what it meant."

"And do you? Get what it means?"

"I thought I did," Callie sighed, reaching for her phone at the sound of a message tone – with Casey doing the same seconds later, stretching across the breakfast bar to pluck his from the fruit bowl. They both frowned. "Did you just get a text from Hap?"

"Yeah," Casey said. "Makes no sense. You?"

"Jut says to expect airmail and that you've got the pick-up address," she said, puzzled. "What's yours say?"

"St Angelo. Where the hell's that?"

"St Angelo? You sure that's what it says?" Catherine spoke up. "The only St Angelo I know is like 100 miles away. It's in the backend of nowhere in County Fermanagh – it's this tiny little airfield ..."

* * *

**to be continued ...**


	7. Six

**A/N: Big thanks to those reading and reviewing - I've now moved house and have been away for a little break, so even though I'm heading back to work later this week, I'm hoping my wee brain's all refreshed to start building some steam with this ... As always, would love to know what you think! x**

* * *

**Six**

"Now what?" Casey muttered, from behind the wheel of his Range Rover.

"We wait, I guess," Callie shrugged, tugging her gray knit beanie further down over her ears. It was, by local standards, a mild night and clear with it, but she still wished they could at least risk leaving the engine running for the warmth of the car heater. As it was, they were parked up in a secluded corner of the airfield without so much as the headlights to see by.

All they could make out were the shadowy shapes of the trees beyond the perimeter fence, the tiny landing lights that marked out the clear path of the runway and the equally tiny stars overhead. They were, both literally and figuratively, in the dark.

In the two days that had passed, Happy had contacted them just once more with another cryptic text message for each of them. _Wednesday_ for Casey and the equally brief _2am_ for Callie.

They'd made it to St Angelo airport, if you could call the tiny ex-military facility that, with just about ten minutes to spare – no thanks to the argumentative sat nav and the narrow, winding country roads of Co Fermanagh. But nearly an hour had passed since then and they had long since started to think that they'd somehow interpreted the seemingly simple messages wrong.

"And how long do we wait, huh? Two hours? Three? All night?"

Callie didn't see any point in answering. She didn't know any more than he did.

"Me and Hap might go way back," Casey continued on his rant. "But, I swear, if he's got us picking up illegal guns or some shit ... This ain't like back home, running the gauntlet with ATF. You know what'll happen if we get caught with guns here? They'll think we're fucking terrorists, that's what!"

But suddenly his passenger was swatting his knee and hissing at him to shut up. "You hear that?"

He sat back and listened. A plane. Small one, getting closer. Callie's fingers gripped his and he squeezed back as he spared her a glance and tried to force a smile. "Gotta get us a better circle of buddies, doll."

"He wouldn't send us into a shit-storm," she whispered. "He wouldn't ..."

"Maybe not intentionally," came the wry response.

A rumble from the road and the glare of two sets of headlights startled them both as twin flatbed trucks pulled up in a shower of gravel. Doors opened and slammed closed and they could hear running footsteps before most of the airfield was thrown into the harsh glare of artificial light. Before either of them could move, there was a large shadowy figure in front of the windscreen signalling for them to get out.

Despite all the experiences of his former life, Casey swallowed hard. "Stay here," he told a wide-eyed Callie, reaching for the door handle.

"The fuck I will!"

But it was settled for them when Callie's door was unceremoniously yanked open from the outside before she could move and a hand reached in.

"Donal, An Clochán Liath," a cheery voice declared, followed by an expectant pause which soon turned questioning. "Sons of Anarchy, Dungloe branch? God love ya, wee lass, we were told to expect company, but I'm guessin' by the looks o' things, ya weren't told the same ..."

The outstretched hand beckoned again impatiently and Callie, seeing few other options open to her, took it and slid from her seat. She could practically feel the burly biker's eyes on her through her leather jacket as he gave her the once-over out of what seemed to be habit and then shook his head as if bemused.

"Jaysus, I dunno," he muttered, before shrugging off whatever was running through his mind. "Well, stir yersels then - our Pete's bringin' them in any minute now. Couldn't normally hit a cow's arse wi' a banjo, but put him in a plane and he does all right. So, come on – no use standin' there lookin' like a waxwork o' yer sweet self ..."

Still lost for answers, she and Casey did as they were told.

* * *

A steel-blue gaze met calculating brown eyes, even as they both tried to weigh up their options without it showing on their respective faces. It was a battle of wills rather than wits. Who could hold out the longest, who would finally crack under the frustration. So far, every question had been met with the same silent response. It was long past getting old.

"For the benefit of the tape," he tried once more. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something was shifting. The man seated across from him finally stirred, leaning in to rest his elbows on the edge of the table and steeple his thick fingers thoughtfully. Finally, they might be getting somewhere.

"For the benefit of the tape ..." came the slow echo, in a mocking tone. "I'm givin' DCI No-Dick the finger. And the bastard can swivel on it."

The detective held back the sigh that almost escaped him. Fucking typical. He'd been around a long time. Too long, he was beginning to think more often than usual. And he was surer than ever that the old adage was true. That republicans bombed their way into jail and emerged with degrees to waiting political careers. Loyalists ... Well, they went to jail as criminal thugs and came out with bigger muscles and even bigger drug habits.

The man in front of him, for all his clout and control, wasn't smart - just bullish enough to have risen to his position of relative power by brute force and ignorance. Neither element was in short supply among his followers.

"You're boring me now, Tommo," DCI Dave Nolan said, as he casually loosened his dark gray tie and undid the top button of his white shirt. His voice was cool but still polite, relatively speaking. His black suit jacket already hung over the back of his chair. "I got better things to do than pander to some scumbag who thinks he can play games with the big boys."

"Scumbag, aye?" his prisoner spat, already seeming more rankled by the simple insult than anything else that had been thrown at him during the two-hour interrogation. "No wonder you traitorous bastards got me caged up like a bloody animal in this dungheap. Sorry state of affairs it is when loyalty to the rightful flag of this country gets men like me branded as scum and the _real_ scum of the fuckin' IRA got to swan around as so-called _political prisoners_. Makes me sick, so it does. _Sick._"

"I'd hardly call dying on hunger strike _swanning around_," Nolan shrugged. "Not that I give any more of a shit about them than I do about you. _A crime is a crime is a crime_. Know who said that?"

"Thatcher, the aule bitch. You think I'm thick as pig shite or what?"

The detective actually laughed. Fucking typical. More concerned with appearances than anything of real value. The man in front of him had a reputation to protect, because on the street that was half the battle. Reputation and results. Hence the shows of strength, but also the preening - the muscles had to be bulging, the bling real, the suits smart or track, but always designer. They seemed to make a point of surrounding themselves with signs of power and wealth, from the high fences around the houses that should have been out of their league, to huge cars with blacked out windows, and even pitbulls - of both the four and two-legged variety. Not like the republicans of old with their unassuming Aran jumpers and corduroys. At least back in the day they'd had a cause of sorts, however ill-judged. Loyalists like Tommo though ... Well, they might have started out as a reactionary force, but nowadays, they barely needed an excuse for their own particular brand of mayhem.

He decided to cut to the chase.

"I got ten bodies kicking up their heels in the morgue."

"So I hear. Motorbike gangs. Risky way to live. Yous catch who did it yet?"

"Yet? Is that recognition that we will catch whoever pulled the trigger? Because we will. But the man who gave the orders? Well, I reckon we already got him right where we want him ..."

Tommo stared back at him unflinching, not that Nolan had really expected a reaction from something as simple as that. In his mind, the man wasn't smart enough to be backed into a corner.

"Listen, mate, you're not messin' with some wee republican bastard now, you know," the prisoner snarled suddenly, unexpectedly. "I ain't gonna snivel and whine and if you're waitin' on me turnin' tout, you'll be waitin' a helluva long time. A _helluva_ long time."

Nolan held his hands out, palm up, in a _what-you-gonna-do_ gesture of resignation. But there was a spark of fire in his brown eyes when he leaned in close. "Time is one thing you got plenty of, _mate_," he warned, keeping his voice low and calm. It sounded all the more threatening for it. "See, I'm gonna make sure you stay behind these bars for every single second of your sentence and slowly, but surely, you better believe your power's gonna fade. There's no real _loyalty_ among your sort, not when the chips are down. Some other hood, he'll make a move for your turf, your business ... Hell, maybe even your girl. You think she's gonna be out there waiting for you once she realises all that power's gone?"

The colour was starting to rise above the collar of Tommo's t-shirt, his neck slowly turning scarlet as his fists clenched and his eyes narrowed. Nolan kept talking in that same, almost monotonous, tone. But there was a ghost of something that might have been a smile toying with the corner of his mouth.

"Nah, not Sharon. She ain't gonna wait for you, _mate_. Fancies herself as a proper gangster's moll, that one, and she ain't getting any younger. You're gonna be rotting in here, behind these walls, and she's gonna be taking it up the ass from some other roid-dicked loser with a stolen stash of little blue pills. Probably in your bed. It'll be like nothing's changed. Except for you. You'll still be ..."

With a howl like a wounded animal, his face scarlet and his eyes bulging with hate, Tommo lunged for him. And Nolan, in one fluid movement, grabbed him by the back of the neck and slammed him face-first into the table. Then, with the hulking prisoner crumpled on the floor – clutching his shattered nose as dark blood streamed between his fat fingers – the detective stood and adjusted the sleeves of his still crisp white shirt, rolled up as they were to reveal lightly tan skin over lean muscle.

"You wanted to play power games," he said, almost regretfully. "Now we're playing by my rules."

* * *

The sound of an airplane had them all glancing skywards, but under the cover of the dark clouds, there was nothing to be seen. Returning his attention to the two trucks, Casey bumped Callie gently with his hip and gave the slightest nod in their direction.

"Wonder what's under the tarps?" he said, the murmured words escaping from the corner of his mouth.

The shiver that ran down Callie's spine had little to do with the cold night air and he let it go, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her closer to rest his chin on the top of her head. "Better know what you're fucking doing, Hap ..." he muttered below his breath.

The throbbing sound was growing steadily louder and the lights of a small aircraft appeared in the sky, setting Donal and his men to readying themselves for action.

"Here she comes!" the biker declared, unnecessarily. "Nah, don't budge – we're grand here, so we are. Time to roll out the red carpet, lads. Mother charter's in town ..."

Startled by that, both Casey and Callie stepped forward just as the plane touched down and skidded to halt right in front of them. But before they had time to react further, the door was opening and the steps were already in place as a tall figure emerged. One with gray hair and a strong jaw shown up in the airfield lights.

"Clay Morrow!" Donal called as he strode forward. "Pity about the circumstances, but it's good to see ya, brother. Now, get yer arse down here and tell me our Pete ain't shaken the brains outta yer head in this aule rust-bucket."

"Flight here from Dublin was the easiest part of our journey," Clay answered wryly, as he descended the steps and pulled the Dungloe president into a warm hug. "Luck o' the Irish, I guess. Donal, good to see you, brother."

While the pair were exchanging greetings, the belly of the plane brought forth a small stream of weary-eyed Sons. It was evident, both from their appearance and their current circumstances, that their long trip from the US had been made longer still by their circuitous route. No doubt necessary to avoid awkward questions and the security complications of airlines and customs officers.

Watching with a strange sense of anticipation as her brain still struggled to keep up with the twists and turns of the night's events, Callie still recognised the men stumbling down the metal steps and managed to put names to the faces – some more easily than others.

Blonde, handsome Jax Teller. Curly-haired, wild-eyed Tig. Scarred, thickly accented Chibs. A mountain of a man that had to be the nomad president. The name escaped her, then fluttered from the recesses of her mind. Quinn. And then nothing. Her heart sank and she started to turn to Casey, not understanding their place in all of this.

Another figure caught the corner of her eye. Tall and with the strain somehow etched a little deeper on his face than the others, looking unlike his usual self ...

"Koz?" Callie said unsurely, wondering what the Tacoma sergeant was doing with the Charming crew and why ... "Oh!"

Her feet seemed to have moved of their own accord and she didn't even realise she had walked straight past Kozik and the others – the Dungloe guys hauling the tarpaulins back to reveal enough road-worn Harleys for their guests - until she somehow found herself at the bottom of those steps and right in front of the final passenger.

"Couldn't tell ya on the phone, darlin'," Happy said, his voice gruff as he stoically ignored the bemused stares of his brothers and even managed a wry laugh himself. "Guess I got a lot of shit that falls into that category. You gonna kick my ass, little girl? 'Cause, fuck, I'd really rather get that kiss ..."

* * *

**to be continued ...**


	8. Seven

**Seven**

"So ..." Callie began quietly, making Happy turn round from where he was leaning on the rail of her balcony to nurse the hot coffee she'd made him and stare out across the river. "Club business and a booty call, huh?"

He'd gotten his kiss back at the airfield, but it had been a mere numb graze of her lips against his when he'd leaned down to greet the dazed little blonde. They hadn't had time for more, even if they'd wanted it, before Donal was urging them to get moving to avoid any unwanted attention.

"So the wee lass ... Hap's?" he'd heard the Dungloe president ask Clay curiously. "Jaysus, never thought I'd see the day! How's Mr Tall-Dark-and-Moody managin' to pull a cutie like her then?"

He'd ignored the speculation and supposed no one quite dared ask him outright, as Casey slapped him on the back and then pulled his fellow tattooist with him and she simply slid into his Range Rover without a word. That left the Sons to take to the trucks or, exhausted as they were, the borrowed bikes. He'd flanked the lead vehicle on its passenger side the whole way to Belfast, even though it was too dark to catch more than one vague glimpse of what he thought was Callie glancing back at him in the beam of his headlight.

Dragging her all the way out there had been selfish, Happy knew that much. And if he'd examined his reasoning, maybe he'd have found a need for the first sight to greet him to not be a reminder that ten of his brothers were dead. Maybe, after everything, he needed a little light back in his life again. But all he really knew was that he'd needed to see her, safe and whole. Waiting, even another couple of hours, just hadn't seemed like an option. Crazy shit after six months without contact, he supposed. Six long fucking months.

_Club business and a booty call ..._

Her words echoed in his mind and a slight scowl darkened his gaze. She had every right to be pissed, he knew that too. But she couldn't seriously think that was all this was. And hell, while Casey had taken in Kozik and the Sambel survivors were hosting the rest of their visiting brothers, she hadn't protested against him going home with her. That was something at least, he supposed.

He was a soldier, he followed orders. If Clay had pushed for him to stay put, help take care of business and the protection side of things back in Charming, he'd have accepted that. Whatever his true motivation though, he knew they needed him in Belfast if retribution was to be on the agenda and it seemed the club had agreed.

_Club business and a booty call ..._

The fuck it was.

In the second it had taken for his brain to compute what she'd said, she was already shaking her head though. "Shit, ignore that," she said, with a little sigh. "It's really late, or early, and apparently lack of sleep makes me bitchy. You must be fucking shattered, 'cause I'm dead on my feet and I haven't been on some two-day camel trek to get here, so ..."

"Callie," he cut her off, setting his mug down on the flat-topped railing and considering her as she stood just inside, leaning against the open sliding door of the balcony. Since they'd arrived at her apartment, she'd toed off her boots and shed layers until she was left in jeans, a loose white vest and a gray skull-print scarf, her arms now wrapped around herself for warmth. "I know I ain't good at this shit, doll. No excuses - I shouldn't have left ya hangin' for so fucking long. Be pissed with me, I can deal with that. But don't go making this somethin' it ain't."

She shook her head again. "That booty call dig was ... just passive-aggressive bullshit. Honest. Okay, I didn't know what to think when I didn't hear from you and, yeah, I was kinda pissed. I mean, I know you've had a lot of heavy shit on your plate. I get that. But mostly it just _hurt_ that you didn't even check in, see if I was doin' okay."

"I talked to Sketch. Casey too, a coupla times," he said, not liking how defensive his voice sounded even to his own ears. But she only smiled ruefully at him.

"I know. Truth be told, it kinda made it that little bit worse though. Like it wasn't that you didn't have time, you just ... didn't want to talk to _me_. Fuck, Hap, I don't want to be that person. Getting clingy 'cause I don't know where I stand. Doubting you. Doubting me. We've been here before, remember?"

Christ, yeah, he remembered. Neither of them were likely to forget the moment he'd forced her to hold his own gun to his head in a bid to prove how much he trusted her – how much he needed her to trust him. Fuck, he'd do it again if he thought it would work. He had to make this right. He knew she deserved better, but this was the girl he knew he'd kill for in a heartbeat and die for even faster. But most of all, she was the girl he wanted to _live_ for.

"I didn't want to talk to you," he admittedly suddenly, his voice rough as he met her gaze squarely. The look on her face made him realise how that sounded and he grimaced in frustration. "Not on the goddamn _phone_. I wanted to hear your voice, but I wanted to be able to see you when I did. _Touch_ you. Just have you with me, for fuck's sake! Callie, I ..."

It was probably the most open he'd ever been with her, with anyone, but he had to make her see. It was no longer a question of trust, but something that ran even deeper ...

"I thought the further you were from me, the safer you'd be," Happy forced himself to continue, his fists inadvertently clenching at the memory of nonetheless seeing her thousands of miles from him and still hurting. "And I thought knowing that would make it easier. But I couldn't get you out of my fucking head and, if I couldn't have you with me, then I wasn't settling for a damn phone call. What the fuck was I supposed to say, huh, Callie? The fuck was I supposed to _say_?"

Callie looked startled at the strength of his outburst. "Most people start with _hello_ ..." she offered quietly.

He could feel his frustrations skyrocket, thinking that she didn't get what the hell it was he was trying to say, and any effort to keep a lid on his volatility was fast becoming futile. "Are you shitting me here?" he demanded, his voice rising angrily. "Jesus Christ, Callie, I fucking _love_ you! That something I'm just supposed to tell you from the other side of the world over the motherfucking _phone_?"

But as quickly as his temper had spiked, it was gone again, leaving him breathing heavily as his heart slowly sank into his boots. Yeah, good job he'd held out to deliver that little gem in person – snarling it at her like a fucking rabid dog was much better than a simple phone call. Real nice, _asshole_.

He didn't know what kind of reaction he was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn't the soft spark of humour in her gray eyes as she unfolded her arms and started towards him.

"So romantic, Lowman," she said wryly, looking up at him as he tried to figure out what the fuck was going on in her mind, her fingers reaching to play with the hem of his plain white t-shirt. "You ever think about writing Hallmark cards?"

He glared down at her blackly. Then he took a chance and leaned in to claim her mouth with his, unable to resist.

* * *

As the first streaks of dawn painted the horizon, mirrored in the seemingly still waters of the river, one rough kiss deepened into another, then another, and another.

Happy's hands reached to loosen the scarf around her neck, fending off the half-hearted protest she tried to meet him with, even though he tensed as he caught sight of her bruises. But he forced himself to push the memory of that footage of some bastard with his hands on her to the back of his mind and instead focus on letting his mouth trail from hers, along her jaw, and down to sooth the fading signs of the flare of violence against her. He could feel her swallow hard at the unexpected tenderness.

The soft length of material fell forgotten to the ground and his mouth moved lower, letting him nip at Callie's collarbone and then trace the line of her scar.

"If you're ... still pissed ..." he ground out between open-mouthed kisses on her bare skin. "Tell me ... to stop ..."

She merely whimpered and his mouth continued on its journey lower, tasting soft cotton as his lips travelled over her still-covered breasts and made her arch into him.

"I'll stop ... if you tell me ..."

The rasp of his voice made it sound almost like a threat and Callie shook her head, her hand coming up to caress the scruff of his shaven head as the way he bit down on her nipple, even through her vest and the delicate lace of her bra, drew a breathless little moan of pleasure from her parted lips.

Conscious that he wasn't prepared to give her neighbours a free show, Happy's large hands gripped her hips and pulled her flush against him as his mouth found hers again, kissing her hungrily and backing her towards the sliding door.

In the last forty-eight hours, he had flown into France in the back of some cargo plane, caught a ferry to Dublin, and flown over the Irish border in another under-the-radar plane. And in less than eight hours time, he'd have to be seated with the rest of his brothers around what was left of the Sambel table, refreshed and focused on the best way forward in their bid to avenge the devastated branch of their extended club family.

Exhaustion may have been seeping into his muscles, but sleep couldn't have been further from his mind as Callie wrapped her arms around his neck and gave in to kissing him back with every bit as much passion. Happy's touch roamed over her possessively, their tongues tangling as they managed to stumble through the apartment to the bedroom, shedding clothes as they went.

His gorgeous girl.

He had to feel her skin-on-skin, be buried deep inside her, hear his name on her lips, make her come for him.

Prove she was_ his._

* * *

Both trying to get their breath back, Happy and Callie stared up at the ceiling as they lay sprawled side-by-side in the comfort of her big king-sized bed. Tiny beads of sweat still glistened on bare skin.

"C'mere," the biker ordered gruffly, holding out an arm to his girl. It seemed he could no longer deny, either openly or in his own mind, that she was exactly that – _his_. And with a smile, she shifted closer and pillowed her head on his chest with a sigh of contentment, enjoying the lazy way his hand trailed up and down her back.

He knew he was too caught up in his club for her, probably too old, and definitely too steeped in the violence of his life choices, but six months without her had been six months too fucking many.

"I missed this," she confessed softly, the hand she had rested on his stomach tracing idle patterns. "I mean, I think I needed to come here. Stand on my own two feet for a bit. But ..."

"You been sowing your wild oats, kid?" Happy asked, looking amused by the idea as he shifted to glance down at her, one arm folded casually behind his head and the other still holding her close.

"Something like that," she chuckled, but the laughter faded from her lips as she felt him wrap her up in his inked arms. "Cuddles? You miss me too, tough guy?"

"Guess I did. Just don't you go thinkin' you can give me shit for it."

Callie simply shook her head, pushing her tousled hair back from her face and snuggling deeper into the warmth of his embrace as her body began to cool down. "So ..." she started casually enough, before her tone turned teasing. "You didn't just come all the way to Belfast to get laid then?"

"Little bitch," he mock-glared, even as his hand drifted down to the curve of her ass. "You know damn well I didn't. Not that it ain't a pretty good bonus ..."

"Bastard!" came the laugh, as she swatted his chest and then just leaned down for a long kiss. "But I love you."

Reaching down to snag the duvet from where it had ended up at the foot of the bed and tugging it over them both, Happy lay back again with a groan, his cock already showing signs of interest in another round. "Get some sleep, gorgeous. Before I forget I got shit to handle."

Because no matter how much they lost themselves in each other, the real world was still waiting and Belfast lay just outside.

* * *

**to be continued ...**


End file.
